by Diane Capri
Ralph looked personally affronted. “You’re kidding. We’re here, we’re prepared, and we’ve got everything ready to make the most of tonight’s timing. We won’t have this kind of chance again.”
Clearly, she realized with only mild annoyance, he had expected her simply to acquiesce. She explained her reasoning politely because she was sure he’d never apprehend it on his own.
“You’re a stranger here, Ralph, but I’m not. Florida voters have elected me repeatedly because I support and practice traditional southern values like respect, courtesy, kindness, and decency. They expect Governor Helen Sullivan to be true to her word and they trust me, count on me to do what their parents taught them to expect of our leaders and ourselves. No excuses. No whining.”
What she didn’t add was that Florida voters knew Helen Sullivan would not be intimidated. Not by a grief-stricken father turned suicide bomber; not by a faux crusader like David Manson and his abolition devotees; and not by a long-in-the-tooth political operative like Ralph Hayes.
He narrowed his eyes and finished his drink. Helen heard a television playing somewhere else in the suite. He puffed the cigar and held it between stubby fingers as he used the fingers to point for emphasis. “You’re right, of course.”
The affirmation surprised her, but she’d reacted too soon.
“Those are all the reasons we offered you the opportunity in the first place. You told me both you and Oliver believe your destiny is to serve the people of the State of Florida. From the time you began working as a prosecutor right out of law school, through your stints in the state legislature, and up to this moment, your gift has been evident. You were born for public service, Helen. U.S. Senator is the logical next step for you.” He stopped a moment and she could feel his manipulation coming as if he’d signaled it in Morse code. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
So that was his ploy: Ralph Hayes sought to demonstrate his power was greater than hers.
Helen simply smiled. “There aren’t that many women governors in the country. The number who can win a senate election is even smaller.” She paused. “And there is only one who can win in Florida.” Helen wielded power too, especially here.
Ralph made a show of standing up and straightening himself. He tightened his tie, rolled down his left sleeve, buttoned the cuff, and lied. “This is a decision that needs to be made above my pay grade, Helen. I’ll need to kick the question upstairs. It may take me a few minutes to reach the president and then I’ll have to explain things. Can you wait?”
“Take your time.” She settled into the chair and made herself comfortable because she recognized the new maneuver for what it was, the commencement of a high-stakes game of chicken. She’d be waiting a while.
Her mind returned to the day’s dramatic events. Ironically, the chaos poor Arnold Ward had caused had already produced several beneficial effects: silencing Manson’s protesters, ending Jess Kimball’s interrogation, and reminding people of Tommy Taylor’s many innocent victims. Helen appreciated the brief respite from the unrelenting weight of Taylor’s execution. She felt less stress tonight than she’d felt in weeks.
Except for her continuing concern about Oliver.
When Ralph Hayes returned, Helen glanced at the clock on the mantel. He’d been on the phone for twenty minutes, which was apparently enough to make his point that he was in control. Now he had his jacket back on and spoke in a falsely conciliatory tone.
“The President sends his regards. Asked me to offer condolences to the Ward family, too,” Ralph announced, acting as if he’d just concluded a personal communion with God. “But he agrees with me on this one.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’re both mistaken, then, and I’d be happy to explain things to the President if you’d like. A few days’ delay can’t make that much difference to you.”
The self-styled king-maker set down his cigar, his ruddy complexion darkening to cranberry. “You understand as well as anyone, Helen. We’ve got to hit the ground running and keep running until we win. We can’t lose this seat. It’s like the President just told me: Florida is too important on the national level. We don’t have a moment to lose.”
Still, she didn’t give in. “I knew Arnold Ward, Ralph. I know his wife. I know his daughters. I’ve seen crime scene pictures of his murdered children. It’s ruthless to simply go on with our plans as if Arnold Ward didn’t die today in my front yard. Don’t you see that?”
This was why she objected to Ralph’s plan so strongly. Not only her personal feelings but also her deepest professional instincts told her that announcing her candidacy tonight was wrong. Taylor’s execution during the holiday season was already pushing the envelope of decency. Florida might not be as southern as it once was, but people here had certain expectations of their governor’s decorum. She’d run the state well for two full terms. There was no reason to finish her service leaving a bad taste in everyone’s mouth.
Ralph Hayes didn’t meet her eyes. He pushed a pile of ash around the ashtray with his cigar tip.
“Four or five days,” she said. “That’s all I’m saying. It’s the holiday season, Ralph. People will be busy with their families. No one will notice a campaign kick-off before the New Year anyway.” She hated the cajoling tone in her voice; despised the compromise that politics often required.
Finally, Hayes looked straight at her. “I’ve been getting senators elected a long time and I know what I’m talking about. If the voters believe you’re strong enough to handle the pressure, you’ll win. Period.” Ralph leaned forward. “But they won’t elect you if they feel sorry for you. Or if they think you’re weak. Or distracted by sentiment.”
He sat back in his chair to let the warning sink in.
Helen didn’t miss his meaning. Distracted by mourning the death of her child; worried about her invalid husband; still recuperating herself; too soft to put a child serial killer to death. She hadn’t stood for election since Eric’s murder. Maybe she didn’t have the public’s confidence any more. Maybe she should be a bit more pragmatic. But for the life of her, she couldn’t see how waiting a few days would show weakness or be too late.
“You’ve got to announce tonight,” Ralph finished with force. “Otherwise, we move on. Now or never, Helen. What’s it going to be?”
She hated to be pressured, too. Any attempt at coercion infuriated her. She felt her nostrils flare and her heart beat a little faster. She didn’t imagine she was irreplaceable. No one was. Maybe she’d misjudged the competition. Perhaps Ralph had someone else in the wings, someone more controllable.
But she knew the party wanted her to run and win as much as she wanted it. She was the logical choice. She was leaving the governor’s job at the height of her popularity. How far would they push her? This might be the time to find out.
She narrowed her eyes and considered the political operative for a few moments more before standing up, smoothing the long gown over her hips, and looking at the clock. “I’m late. I’ll see you downstairs.”
Helen left without answering his question. Maybe she was throwing away the party’s support. But she thought not. She closed the door softly behind her.
Frank Temple waited in the hallway. They walked to the elevator without speaking. He punched the down button. When the car arrived, he pressed the ballroom level button, but she reached up afterward and pressed the button for the lobby.
In response to his inquiring glance, she said, “I need some fresh air.”
He retrieved his cell phone and spoke to their driver. He snapped it closed. “A short drive is a better idea.”
“That will give me a chance to check in with Oliver,” she said, holding out her hand for the phone. The only problem with the dress was that it had no pockets.
Once in the back of the car, the privacy screen up between them, she dialed her husband, the one man she could count on to counsel her without a hidden agenda. Oliver always wanted what was best for her.
“Hi, Helen.” His sl
urred speech, a residual effect of the stroke he suffered after he was shot, was difficult for most people to understand. But his voice sounded weary to her keen ear, attuned to his every nuance.
“Hi, honey. How did the session go?” Oliver had been working with his grief counselor for three years now. Progress was glacial, but every time she asked Dr. Ben Fleming assured her: It was still progress.
Oliver’s resigned sigh traveled through the phone and whispered against her ear. “It was fine, Helen. Just like it always is.”
“What did you talk about?”
“What we always talk about.”
She waited a few beats, but he didn’t say more. There wasn’t much more to say. She already knew that they talked about Eric. Discussed Oliver’s grief. Explored his inability to move on with his life. Watched the full video of Eric’s crash. Sometimes, they talked about his lack of physical progress in recovering from the stroke, too. Oliver had always been a physical man. His immobility depressed him almost as much as his grief, Ben had told her more than once, as if she didn’t already know.
She put a lighter note in her voice. “Are you sure you don’t want to come up for the dinner tonight? We started this gig together and I’d love to have you with me for the grand finale.”
Oliver had never liked black-tie affairs, but he was an accomplished dancer. There was a time when he would have moved heaven and earth to be with her on the night of her last big bash as Florida Governor, when she announced her Senate candidacy. They’d have taken at least one stylish turn around the dance floor and ended her term with a flourish. No, the Oliver she loved wouldn’t have missed such an important occasion, even if he needed to use a cane to ambulate.
“I wish I could,” he said, almost as if he meant it.
Helen closed her eyes and visualized him seated in the old brown leather armchair behind the desk his father had used to settle the books at the ranch. He’d have the windows open and he’d be breathing the crisp December air. The desk lamp would cast a warm glow over his desk and the fire in the fireplace would take the chill from the room. Maybe he wore his threadbare brown sweater and black denim jeans. Before his stroke, he’d have worn boots, but now he couldn’t pull them on and he wouldn’t allow anyone to do it for him.
“Frank offered to fly down and bring you back here,” she said. Oliver trusted Frank, just as she did. They’d been through hell together. The experience had bonded them more tightly than Frank’s FDLE job description suggested; none of them could imagine life without Frank now.
“You know how long the reception line will be. You can easily make it for the last dance, at least.” The jet could be there and back in time.
“Your tux is here, all ready for you.”
She’d left small spaces between each cajoling sentence, giving him a chance to say yes, but not enough room to offer another excuse. She didn’t want to tell him the truth: that she wanted, needed him here with her.
When she stopped for a breath, he said, “It’s too late, Helen. And I have a morning session with Ben.”
She felt herself frowning and pressed her fingers between her brows to smooth the furrows. If Oliver’s complicated grief was improving, his sessions should be less frequent.
At least that’s what Dr. Fleming had explained six months ago. Normal grief lasts less than a year, he’d told her. But complicated grief like Oliver’s could go on much longer, especially grief over a murdered child.
Added to his recovery from his gunshot wound and the stroke that followed, the consultant confirmed the negative prognosis both Oliver’s grief counselor and his physicians offered.
She’d meant to voice the point only to herself, but she asked aloud, “I thought you were only meeting with Ben once a week now.”
“We added a few more sessions since you’ve been away.”
When she didn’t respond, she felt his sigh again.
“Don’t worry, Helen. I’m fine. Have a great party. Tell them all good bye and promise to do them proud in Washington. I’ll be here tomorrow when you get back and we’ll enjoy the holidays before you have to start campaigning. How’s that?”
She had no choice. Until she could get home and see for herself, she had to content herself with his plan. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, then.”
Perhaps hearing the concern in her voice, Oliver relented a bit. “I love you, Helen. I’ve always loved you. I’m just going through another rough patch. I’ll be one hundred percent soon. I promise.”
Somehow they got disconnected then. She tried to call him back, but heard only a busy signal, as if the line was jammed.
She sat holding the phone in her left hand, her right massaging the sore spot on her left shoulder where the bullet had grazed her, taking out a slice of her muscle, leaving a scar and lingering pain that she worried would never heal.
“Governor?”
It was Frank; she realized the car had stopped in front of the hotel once again. She didn’t feel ready to go inside yet.
“Helen? It’s late,” Frank said.
“I know.” She had made her decision.
Both she and Oliver needed a change. They’d move to Washington, get away from the ranch and the memories of Eric that still lived and breathed and hounded them there. She wanted the Senator’s job and there was no way to get it without the party’s support.
Because it suited her purposes, she’d allow Ralph Hayes to win this round, as he’d smugly assumed he would. But there would be other battles, she knew. He wouldn’t win them all.
Yes, she would announce her candidacy tonight, and she’d find a way to deal with the inevitable public criticism of her timing.
Having Oliver with her when she revealed her future political plans would have made the moment complete. But he wasn’t coming. She ignored her misgivings on that subject now, too.
Frank exited the front seat, opened the back door, and offered his hand.
She emerged from the limousine, stood tall and took a deep breath. She handed the cell phone to Frank. “We got disconnected. If he calls back, let me know right away.”
“Anything wrong?”
“Not at all,” she heard herself saying too quickly. “Everything’s fine.” She took another deep puff from her inhaler and handed it to Frank as well. She stood tall, straightened the dress over her stomach, and walked into the hotel.
A few minutes later, Helen stood in the receiving line, smiling at guests as they approached her, shaking hands, murmuring appreciation for each guest’s attendance.
Helen looked toward Frank, standing a few feet away. He patted his left breast pocket where she’d seen him place the phone before they entered the ballroom. He shook his head to let her know that it hadn’t rung, that Oliver hadn’t called back. She nodded.
And tried not to worry.
Chapter Four
Thornberry, Florida
Thursday 7:45 p.m.
HE WAITED NOT OUT OF NEED, but to prolong the pleasure. This was his most ambitious project thus far. After weeks of planning, tonight had come too quickly. He wanted to savor the experience. He took a deep breath in through his nostrils, as though he might smell the fear and grief in the air.
He settled his lanky body more deeply into the well-worn cane bottomed chair and crossed his ankles on the porch rail, nearly invisible in the night, dressed in black from toes to crown. The tight-fitting microfiber ski mask on his face was a necessary nuisance. Fortunately, tonight’s cool December breeze made the black cocoon less uncomfortable than usual.
The night-vision goggles that he’d use later to watch the results of his work rested in his lap. He didn’t need them yet. His gaze roamed over the open darkness between the cabin and the ranch house. The darker shape of the small barn was barely visible between the two dwellings. Ambient light from the ranch house cast slight shadows around the trees, but it was too far away to illuminate the barn or the cabin. Or him.
He concentrated on the scene, embedding the layout of the o
pen space and its obstacles into his memory, even though he’d seen it hundreds of times before. From experience he knew that a scene viewed through the goggles would bear distorted resemblance to its vivid daylight counterpart.
Under his glove top and over his turtleneck’s sleeve he wore a diver’s watch, which he glanced at now. 7:45 p.m. Almost time. But he could spare a few more moments to anticipate the evening and its results. He closed his eyes and visualized the job once more, marking off his mental checklist as he reviewed the preparations he’d already made to be sure there was nothing he’d forgotten.
Measure twice, cut once, his father had often said.
Handling the unanticipated events as they occurred was the other challenge.
Tonight he had parked his rent-a-wreck about a mile from the cabin, keys in the ignition. He’d rented the small black truck yesterday from a cut-rate rental company using cash and a fake driver’s license. Then he drove to the airport and parked in the long term lot. Earlier today, he’d taken a cab to the airport and picked up the truck. It waited at an abandoned ranch, safely stowed in one of the empty outbuildings, embassy parked nose toward the door inside the building for a hasty departure at the end of the night’s work.
He patted the zippered pocket resting on the right hip of the smooth-fitting black slacks. Two small, disposable lighters made a comfortable bump in his silhouette. He’d stashed three small cans of accelerant in a corner of the horse barn two days ago where he knew they wouldn’t been seen or disturbed until he was ready for them.
The distance from the cabin to the barn where Jake and five other horses were stabled was exactly 165 yards. He could easily run that distance in well under two minutes, but he didn’t think he’d have to. He didn’t expect anyone to give chase.
For the next few moments, he mentally reviewed his plans for the rest of the evening. He’d walked the route in the daylight and he knew every inch of the terrain. He’d been in the barn many times. He could almost feel the dirt floor covered in hay, smell the horse manure. An unconscious nod: He felt fully prepared, almost as if he’d done the job already.
